Planting his feet far apart and placing his arms akimbo he faced his
host in grim defiance.

"Got any more of these?" He inquired, placing his hand on the poster
under his belt.

"Several," replied the sheriff.

"Trot `em out," ordered Hopalong shortly.

The sheriff sighed, stretched and went over to a shelf, from which
he took a bundle of the articles in question. Turning slowly he looked
at the puncher and handed them to him.

"I reckons they's all over this here town," remarked Hopalong.

"They are, and you may never see Texas again."

"So? Well, yu tell yore most particular friends that the job is
worth five thousand, and that it will take so many to do it that when
th' mazuma is divided up it won't buy a meal. There's only one man in
this country tonight that can earn that money, an' that's me," said
the puncher. "An' I don't need it," he added, smiling.

"But you are my prisoner-you are under arrest," enlightened the
sheriff, rolling another cigarette. The sheriff spoke as if asking a
question. Never before had five hundred dollars been so close at hand
and yet so unobtainable. It was like having a check-book but no bank
account.